They had wanted him to know — and him alone to know — of that much he was sure. They had wanted him to know, the typewriter had said, because he was an average human.
Why him? Why an average human? There was an answer to that, he was sure — a very simple answer.
A squirrel ran down the trunk of an oak tree and hung upside down, its tiny claws anchored in the bark. It scolded at him.
Crane walked slowly, scuffing through newly fallen leaves, hat pulled low above his eyes, hands deep in his pockets.
Why should they want anyone to know?
Wouldn’t they be more likely to want no one to know, to keep under cover until it was time to act, to use the element of surprise in suppressing any opposition that might arise?
Opposition! That was the answer! They would want to know what kind of opposition to expect. And how would one find out the kind of opposition one would run into from an alien race?
Why, said Crane to himself, by testing for reaction response. By prodding an alien and watching what he did. By deducing racial reaction through controlled observation.
So they prodded me, he thought. Me, an average human.
They let me know, and now they’re watching what I do.